Who are ye that always wander
Up and down and here and yonder?

—We are they that ever seek,
Over fen and fell and peak,
Down the desert-straitened creek,
Through dank forests darkening wholly
Tarns remote and melancholy,
For the flower known as moly,
Flower that wards the flesh and heart
From beguileful Circe's art.

Seek no more! seek no more!
Not on mountain, moor or shore,
Not by noon, nor under moon,
Blows the plant of magic boon,
Not with eyes shall any find it
Nor with fingers pluck and wind it:
From the dust of limbs and heart
Shall the roots of moly start,
Over thy forgetful grave
Shall the flower of moly wave.